Far From Heaven
by Messiah91
Summary: Adam continues on the road with his new half-brothers...and he must adapt to their lifestyle. Major-AU with spontaneous amounts of fluff and angst.
1. I Want to Believe

**I**

For a moment, fleetingly, insanely, Adam couldn't help but indulge himself: he wished he were home. And then the wish curdled in his head, and he wished he'd never wished in the first place. _God—the _irony.

**II**

"Come on," Dean said, turning to me, the motel door opening next to him. I swallowed nervously, hoping he didn't notice. He sort of squints at me. I think that means he caught my uncertainty—note to self: don't swallow around the Winchesters.

"Yeah, coming," I respond, nodding. With one arm I stiffly pick up my bags and begin to move forward, hoping I don't stumble. I do anyway, but it isn't too bad, and out of the corner of my eye, as I pass by him, I notice Dean barely frown. I don't know whether to be glad he didn't full-out cuff me in the back of my head, or indignant that he's frowning because I—me: a guy whose my mom just got killed and whose entire life has been effectively undone and re-molded into some ghetto _X-Files_—stumbled a bit. I settle for a little of both, and just as I'm turning my head back to (maybe) through Dean a mini, I run into a wall.

_Great. First I stumble over my own two feet, and now I'm running into things. Wait…_

It wasn't exactly "things" I'd run into. It was Sam—my new half-brother. (Well, half-big brother, I guess. But if we're being technical, he's really my half-big-little brother—except he's by far the tallest of any of us. Yeah, it's confusing.)

"Sorry," I mumble. Instead of just sliding right past, however, like I try to, Sam stops me, smiling.

"It's ok, Adam," he says. And his voice is full of sincerity, it is, but I also realize that his wide smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

_No, it's _not_ okay_.

"Sure it is," I say, nodding. It's a simple ploy to keep them both at bay, and I know Sam sees it for what it is. But I'm hoping he won't notice.

"Yeah, Adam, _right_." He looks at me as he lets me pass. Underneath his shaggy hair I can just tell he's inspecting me somehow—looking for something.

_But _what_?_

"That is the million-dollar question, isn't it?" I mutter to myself, cracking a smile as an image of Regis Philbin pops into my head.

"We should probably turn in early. We have some—" here Sam clears his throat, uncertain for a moment of how much he should fill me in on. "_Things_ to do."

"Hunting things?" I ask. No use in tiptoeing around the pink elephant.

"No, kids: things like where we figure out just what to do with you." Oh, well, insert foot into mouth.

I look at Dean know with what I hope passes as a questioning look. I don't much care what he means, but I know I should probably stick with the Winchester brothers—m_y _brothers. If playing dumb helps me fit in, so be it. What would be the use of opening up to them anyway?

"We're not used to being a threesome, ok, kid? It'll take a little adjusting to—"

"He means we'll need some new supplies, some new gear—"

"For me?" I couldn't quite help the question. I thought I didn't _care_. And yet just when I thought my chest was cold, a thump-thump-thumping starts right back up. Adrenaline will do that to a person.

"Excited about the idea of hunting?" Dean asks me.

I don't immediately answer. I'm not sure what response he's looking for. I'll just wait—

"Excited about scrounging around in the dark, trying to outsmart something bigger, smarter, and nastier than you are? Excited about risking other people's lives when you try to save them? Excited about never having enough sleep, or food, or energy, but always too much _drive_ to stop?"

Ah: there we go: what he was really getting at. What I thought looked like interest hardened to a cold glint in my new-brother's eye.

"Dude: you've got issues."

"I'm sorry?" He looks a little offended, but not as angry as I thought. He talks the talk like a loose cannon, but a remark like that should have set him off. He should be at my throat right now.

"I said…" I stammer, my mouth drying. His gaze seems curious again, like before. But I know now that there is more to Dean Winchester than just what comes out of his mouth. He's a born liar. And he's scary as hell.

"You've got…issues," I finally mumble out, a little unnerved at my nervousness around him. I don't even _know _the guy!

He laughs. I try my hardest not to look shocked. _Laughter_? What the hell? I don't think I'll ever get a handle on these guys.

"No kid: _I _don't have issues." He pauses, his smile widening, like a shark's.

"Don't you know? Now that we're related, we_ both _have issues."

Laughing and shaking his head, Dean walks by me to the bathroom, patting me roughly on the shoulder as he goes. I stand there a minute afterwards, alone. I'm pretty sure I'm not wearing my puzzlement on my face, but I have to work hard just in case. Everything about this—this—this—_situation_…I'm at a loss.

"He's rough on you. Sorry about that," Sam says. Apparently he's just as good as his brother at sneaking up on people.

I shake my head.

"You ok?"

_Stop asking me that_.

"No," I say trying to clear the air of one pesky older brother.

"You can…I mean, I know you don't really know me but…"

"I can talk to you anytime I want—is that what you're going to say?"

He looks a bit caught in the headlights. I take it that Sam Winchester doesn't get much experience comforting surly teenagers.

_I'm not a surly teenager_.

"Sure I am," I say under my breath.

"Huh?" he asks, trying to reach me.

"Nothing, nothing. Look, Sam, I just…I'm glad to be here, I guess. I'm glad I'm not alone. But…"

He peers down at me, his mind working furiously as he tries to understand. And then suddenly he stops and nods once more, his face set blank again.

"But you feel like you're still alone."

How'd he know? How does he go from fish-out-of-water one moment to Mr. Empathy the next?

"Yeah."

He stares intently at me for one more second before walking past me again toward the bed. Without waiting for me to move, he reaches over and turns off the lamp.

In the darkness I can hear the shuffle of Dean in the bathroom.

I can hear the honking of truckers on the freeway through the thin motel walls.

_Better get used to that_.

I can hear the running water in the sink—I guess Dean is brushing his teeth.

I can see the glint of the moonlight on the knife sitting on Dean's pillow.

I can feel my heart race momentarily, excitedly. The harder it pumps, the sadder I feel. The sadder I feel the angrier I get. The angrier I become the more excited I am to be here where I can _do _something.

And then I feel tired. And I see the floor between both beds, where one of them—Sam, I'm betting—has thrown down a pillow and two blankets.

I feel my feet begin to move and I feel my eyelids flutter and my heart slow.

I feel the aches all over my body, outside and in.

I feel my body being lowered to the ground and I feel myself stretched out on top of the blankets, too tired to move.

I can smell the greasiness of this place we're staying at.

I can smell something strange on the air—salty somehow—and it's coming from the windows and the door.

I hear the clink of a belt and the rustle of fabric as Sam strips out of his clothes. In the darkness I can faintly see his head, mostly just his tousled hair, as he turns and slides into his bed above me.

Finally the water stops running in the bathroom; the toilet flushes; and in the silence I close my eyes.

The darkness presses down upon me—double now—and I can _feel_ it.

For a moment I feel completely alone, more so than I have since this all begin. And then I hear…

"But you're wrong Adam."

Sam?

"You're _not_ alone."

And even without the light on, for just a second, I hope he can see my smile.

_I hope you're right_.


	2. Nothing Serious

_Disclaimer: _I don't own "Supernatural" or profit from it in any way; I merely plunder its intellectual property for my own amusement. I also don't own (most) of the chapter headings, nor Todd Haynes' film from which I've stolen my title.

_Author's Note: _I forgot to do one of these to inaugurate the story—oops! Anyhoo, thanks so much to all the reviewers: I've tried to respond to each of your comments personally; they've helped me continue to work on this story at the pace that I am. Which reminds me: updates will be coming once a week, every Saturday. Below is the second chapter, and there are eight planned chapters after that. Enough of my rambling…enjoy!

**I**

I was beginning to realize that the Winchester brothers were nocturnal.

In the darkness, the two of them came to life. Midnight-and-on is when Dean liked to go to the local bars; it's when Sam preferred to do research. It's also when I liked to go to sleep.

Boy had I gotten over _that _particular hang-up quick. After the first night, when I'd tried to turn in at a reasonable hour of around 1:30, I hadn't tried sleeping until my two brothers did. It was annoying beyond belief, but it saved me from being chewed out by Dean.

And so now I have this whole new pattern to adjust to: sleep right before the crack-of-dawn and wake right after noon. It was hardly enough sleep—what, something like six hours?—but it wasn't exactly my choice, either. These past three mornings I'd been awakened, like clockwork, against my will, by either Sam or Dean. Sam would usually shake me a little; say my name a few times. Not Dean: Dean liked to come up with something oddly loud and sharp—some sort of banging noise…or maybe he'd scream for three seconds _right in my ear_. Let's just say that I learned how to re-set my internal clock pretty quick.

Then today happened. My fourth day with the Winchesters and they decide to throw a curveball.

Oh sure, we all still went to sleep at the usual time.

And then 10:17 happened, and I got to wake up to a voice in my ear: "Hey…_Hey!_"

I tried to hit him to make him shut up, but whether from sleep-deprivation or lack of adequate reflexes or merely for the simple fact that he was faster and stronger than I was, I failed to smack Dean in the face. And so he continued—successfully—to chant in my ear until I managed to stumble into the bathroom, throw water on my face, pull on some pants, and walk out the door.

So where did we come—why did I have to be up so early?

So we could have breakfast. Out. At a diner. Waffles—in the _morning_.

At _10:34_ in the morning. It was too much to process.

Yawning, I rubbed my hand over my face as we stepped out of the Impala.

"Cheer up, kid," Dean said. Sarcastically. I think.

"Yeah, right," I said back, in what I hoped passed for something like a comeback. I was still too intimidated to try anything beyond passive-aggression.

He just laughed and walked ahead of me and Sam towards the front entrance.

Just as we reached the front door, Sam bent down to grab a paper from the dispenser. I tried not to raise my eyebrows too severely—Sam, even at his most nerdy, didn't strike me as a newspaper reader. Too mundane, I guess.

He glanced up though before I could school my face back to its usual blankness. Smiling, he supplied an answer.

"It's for research."

_Of course it is, Adam—_duh_._

I nodded, acting like I understood what he means. He can tell I'm sort of lost though, so he starts to speak again.

"Sometimes there'll be mentions of things that are a little 'out of the ordinary' for the local papers, but they let it slip in anyway. That stuff is for us."

"Wouldn't you be better off just picking up a copy of the_ Weekly World News_?" It sounds like a joke, but I'm half-serious. Everything they do is so surreal; it seems weird that they'd use newspapers to help them do it.

Sam laughs then. "Sorry, Adam. Even though vampires and werewolves and demons are real, that doesn't make the _Weekly World News_ any more reliable."

I mock a sigh of relief. "Thank God—my world can go on spinning."

He laughs again, but this time it feels sincere. "We should probably head in. Dean's waiting." Sam leans in towards me. "And he tends to get grumpy if he waits too long for breakfast."

I nod, playing along. But a part of me _likes _this. It's been a few days, and finally having some semblance of rhythm with the Winchesters—hell, even just one of them—is a step-up. It makes me feel a little less like an uninvited houseguest.

"Go ahead," Sam says, as he pulls the door open. I duck my head a bit with embarrassment but walk ahead of him anyway.

As we come up on the table where Dean is sitting, he spies the newspaper in Sam's hands.

"Of _course_ you want to do research while we have breakfast."

Sam just smirks half-ashamedly.

"Sorry, Dean."

"Whatever," his older brother—_our_ older brother—says, waving over the waitress. "I'll have three waffles, hash-browns, smothered, and a large coffee,_ hot_." The woman scribbles in time to Dean's order, and then turns to the two of us. Sam nudges me with his arm.

"I'll have…" I trail off. I'm not used to eating in diners.

"He'll have some scrambled eggs and a chocolate-chip waffle and a coke," Sam says, saving me from looking like I've never ordered anything at Waffle House.

She turns to him now, pen ready. "And I'll have what Dean's having, with sausage, too, please." He smiles and she flushes.

_My brothers: the lady-killers_.

"Your orders will be right out," she drawls, walking away.

As I sit down, Sam looks at me with a touch of worry. "Sorry for jumping over you like that, but you looked a little…"

"Lost?"

"Yeah," he says, happy not to have said it himself.

"S'okay, Sam. I'm not a big Waffle House guy, that's all."

"Better get over _that _quick, kid," Dean interjects from across the table. I look over at him, looking over at me, and not for the first time have to bite my tongue.

_What is your problem?_

But it would have done no use. For the next five minutes the three of us sit in silence. Sam opens his newspaper and idly scans through it and I grow more uncomfortable by the second. I don't fit, and it's being made abundantly clear now.

And then our food arrives, and I'm saved from my own awkward fidgeting by the presence of greasy eggs.

Dean grabs two napkins and a fork.

"Ok: let's eat."

**II**

It looks like the syrup is starting to congeal on his plate when Dean speaks again.

For my part I'd been staring out the window at the parking lot, trying to distance myself—without seeming unappreciative—from the people who'd buy me breakfast one moment, and not talk to me the next.

Sam at least seemed like he wanted to start a conversation. More than once out of the corner of my eye I saw him look at me and start to open his mouth. And then he'd stop himself, shake his head, and go back to reading his paper.

Part of me wanted to turn around and ask bluntly, "What gives?" But another part of me was afraid of the answer. I didn't really know him, them, after all. It was their decision not to get to know me.

I was knocked out of my sulking when I heard Dean make a noise. At first I couldn't process it, and I thought—"He's choking on his hash-browns." And then I thought, "I don't know CPR." And then I looked at him and saw he wasn't gagging and thought, "I need to stop overreacting."

No, instead of turning blue and frantically gesturing to his throat, he's staring at the newspaper in Sam's hands.

"Sam…"

Hearing his name, and upon seeing the intense look, Sam immediately begins to shake his head.

A week ago—a _day _ago—I'd be lost as to what was about to happen. But I was a little wiser to the Winchester Communication Method. Here's what I'd learned:

Glaring = I have an idea/I see something interesting/_Don't you dare!_

Slight Shake = No way/Not in a million years/Stop thinking what you're thinking

And so they continued like that: Dean kept glaring and Sam kept up with his subtle shake. Forty-five seconds later and finally they stopped. An entire conversation had just passed and I still had no idea what it was about.

Deciding to jump in feet-first, I cleared my throat. Immediately their eyes were both on me.

"What?" I asked, looking first to Sam and then—hesitatingly—Dean.

"Nothing," Dean says. He doesn't add anything and he looks at his brother as soon he's finished…_dismissing _me.

"What?" I ask again. I'm actually curious about this; an idea has started forming in my head, and if I think what is happening _is _happening, well, maybe I want to be in on it…

"Should we—?" Sam stopped himself. _Not on my account, I hope_. And then he looks at me, and I know.

_On my account. Great._

And then here comes Dean, his head swiveling around to look at me, too. Fantastic. What am I supposed to say? Why do they care? "Uh…sure?" I stammer out. Sam nods; Dean continues to stare me down.

I feel on the verge of nervously swallowing again. Sam coughs. "Finish your eggs, Dean. We've got somewhere to be." He nods once to himself, Dean does, and then continues eating.

I'm not sure what he was looking for behind my answer, but I hope he found it.

"Here's what's going to happen," I hear Dean say, sometime later. I look over and see his plate is clean. Waffle House takes priority over filling me in.

"Sam's going to do a little digging, figure out what we're up against. The obit makes it look like a poltergeist, but we can't be sure. Plus College Boy over here _loves _his research—"

A hand reaches over the table and smacks Dean in the head.

"Ouch," he mutters, retaliating with a smack of his own. A part of me tries to crack a grin at their easy dynamic, the bickering.

"Anyways," he continues, glaring at our brother, "after that is when the _real _fun starts…"

And before I can stop him from going on, Dean begins to fill me in on everything that goes bump in the night…and how—exactly—we were going to _bump _back.

Man, I really should have slept in today.


	3. Everything Easy Isn't

_Author's Note: Well, so much for my weekly updates. _ate _my weekly update. Anyhoo, here it is now, a day later._

_Enjoy!_

**I**

"There's so much ammo here—it's like a redneck's wet dream."

I hear laughter, quickly smothered by a cough, so I don't feel the need to turn around to see if my joke worked. It did—and on my oldest brother, no less.

_Score one for the socially-awkward orphan._

Wait: am I an orphan? Sure, _technically_ I'm not an adult—anything not 18, no matter how close, is still _not 18_—and _technically_ my mom is dead…

Well, _technically_, both my parents are dead.

But here I am: perfectly fine. I'm not exactly a victim of the foster-care system or anything; there are no well-intentioned but poorly-equipped social workers lurking in nearby doorways to assess my "condition."

So, sure—_technically_…but not really. I've got family.

Behind me, there is a sudden noise. And it's getting louder; what sounds like braying, a horn, deepens into frustration: the sound of annoyance.

Not ever having experienced this, it takes me a second to place it…and then it clicks and I forget all my daydreaming about the correct labeling of abject adjectives for the moment.

_Dean's mad._

What'd I do this time?

"So this is where you've been the whole time, kid? We went through here, like, ten minutes ago—keep up next time."

He's facing me now, with no cough smothering his mood. For as long as he's been hunting, you'd think he'd hate buying supplies a little less. But Dean's 100% Mr. Efficient when it comes to these things; I'd slowed him down. And now he was staring _me _down. I tried to stare him down back without actually staring back at him. (I don't really foresee rebellion playing over real well in the House of Winchester. Just a vibe I get.)

"Sorry," I mutter, my default response. He nods and turns on his heel, heading back to wherever the two of them were before, without me. There's no order issued as he spins, no hand gesture or finger-snap, but the implication is clear: _Follow me._

A short time later I see Sam's head peeking up over the rows of stuff. We're in the food section of the store. I vaguely recognize boxes of cereal an aisle down.

"I found him," Dean says as way of pronouncement. Sam doesn't respond; he just moves out of the way, handing the reigns of the shopping-cart over to Dean.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sam throw me a pitying look over his shoulder. I must be moping.

By way of showing him I _am _ready for this—the two of them still seemed vaguely reluctant—and that I can navigate a Supercenter without getting hopelessly lost, I swallow my nervousness and venture: "Need anything that's _not _food? I'd be happy to run it over to you."

Before his big brother can answer, my other big brother does.

"Yeah, sure, Adam… Actually, remember where the hunting goods are? Just head over there are start looking over the hunting knives. It's probably time you picked out your own."

"Really?" I try not to seem so surprised.

"Yeah," Sam says, nodding, smiling. "We'll be over there in a minute to see what you've got."

"Ok, yeah—I can do that," I say. Before either of them can answer (truthfully) in the negative, I'm already off to the other side of the store.

My own hunting knife? Did it have to be big? Small? Serrated?

_Stop thinking so much, Adam. Go with it._

Ok then. This is me: going with it…

**II**

Sometimes, going with it can make you look like an idiot. My inner monologue forgot to mention that to me when it imparted its oh-so-wise advice.

Not like it mattered so much in the end: I was an idiot for three, maybe four, seconds. And then I actually got to be a little bit of a badass.

But I'm getting ahead of myself…

So there I was, mulling over all the blades on display—I already had one or two in mind that seemed, I dunno, _me_ (can a knife really be a "you" or a "me"? Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get the hang of this…)—and then Sam and Dean showed up, right on time, just like I was told.

"Let's see what you got," Dean said by way of introduction. I was half-tempted to ignore his question, to ask instead what all the completely ordinary stuff is in the cart and how it's going to help us combat the extraordinary, but I choked-down the impulse.

Holding out my hand, I turned my first choice into the overhead light.

I'd picked it because it seemed small and easily concealable, but the point was definitely sharp (I'd pricked my thumb testing out that theory).

"Whaddaya think?"

Dean looked up at me, looking bemused.

"Adam, that's a skinning knife."

"Yeah…so?"

"If we were _deer _hunters, maybe it'd be a good choice."

"Oh," I replied, seeing the problem. _Strike two_.

"What else do you have?" Sam asked.

I mumbled a bit as my answer, fumbling as I set the first knife down, revealing the second.

Laughing, Dean looked over Choice #2. "From a skinning knife to a Bowie. Kid, you have strange taste."

"Is that…is that good?"

Sam slapped me on the back. "It's way better than what you had before."

Grinning to myself, I tossed the knife into the shopping cart.

Turning back to Sam and Dean, I smiled again, openly to them for the first time in…well, ever.

"Ready?" I ask. All I get is an eye-roll in response, and the ghost of a smirk.

I'll take that as a yes.

**III**

I've been trying to watch Jerry Springer for the last fifteen minutes. Sam's been in-and-out of the motel, getting ready for the hunt, and Dean's just been polishing his gun. I tried to find something to do but I wasn't really sure how to bring it up. After fidgeting with the three small piles of supplies on the small desk in our room, and not receiving any sign of encouragement from the brothers, I flopped back on my bed and turned on the TV. At the very least I'd get my fill of strippers and baby-mama-drama.

"A nice college kid like you, watching this stuff?" I didn't have to look over at Dean to hear the curious judgment in his question.

"Not to sound, y'know, like I'm stereotyping or anything…but you look like Jerry Springer guy yourself."

"Me?" He laughed out loud. "No, no—Maury is more my kind of guy."

"Huh."

He went back to cleaning his gun, ending our thirteen-second conversation.

_That was informative_.

And then, just as I'm letting myself get hooked in on the story of Jovanca and her no-good pimp boyfriend, his voice fills the room. And it sounds…curious.

"Look, don't be worried about tonight, kid. Ok? Just do what we say, and things will be fine. It's a poltergeist—real simple. You won't even need that shiny new knife of yours."

Ok, so his wording still made him sound like a jackass—kind of—but the way he said it…I don't know. Am I crazy, or did it seem like Dean was actually trying to talk to me?

"Yeah, okay." I nodded.

"Good." He smirked at me.

A moment passed. And then another. It was easy—easier than it was before; I could get used to this.

"So…" he said, splitting the silence. He looked down at his gun. Being brave, trying out my whole feet-first-philosophy, I decide to kick-start our "bonding."

"I like pizza; I like to read; I hate _American Idol_; unlike most everyone I know, I prefer cold weather; I used to ride my bike a lot before…" I stop, cutting myself off. _Before…_

And then I remember. How it used to be, before Sam and Dean, before my mom—

It all comes rushing back and suddenly I've forgotten how to swim because I'm drowning in it: the images, the feelings—the abandonment, the confusion, the anger, and the sadness.

Dean stiffens as I trip-fall-smash my way into the days-old tragedy.

"You ok?" he asks, not looking up.

I clear my throat, trying to breathe.

"Kid?" Now he sounds worried; now he's finally looking at me—but _what does he see?_

"I…umm. God, this _seemed_ like such a good idea: I'll just tell you a little about me. And then I got all orphan-y."

"'Orphan-y'? Not to sound harsh or anything, but what the fuck is that?" There's a joke inside his incredulity. I grab onto it.

"Yeah, well making up my own word…that sounded like a good idea too."

Now I'm looking right back at him, still shaking inside but smiling outwardly. Hoping he doesn't catch the tremors.

"Tell me everything," he says, commanding.

"What?"

"You. This. I don't know you; you don't know me. That's not going to change until I can work around _this_."

"You mean the wonderful thing that brought us together?"

"Don't be morbid," he snaps, like I've struck a nerve. "It makes you sound like Sam."

"Sorry." For once, my fake apology isn't trying to sound apologetic. This sudden surge of hurt is making me courageous. Or spiteful, I can't figure out which.

"Adam…" Dean gets up, walks closer to me. "_Adam_."

"Huh?" I look up at him: a blank slate. But my jaw is clinched and my eyes are burning.

"What's going on?"

_I could ask you the same thing. What just _happened_?_

"I can't talk about this." Now please, shut-up.

"I don't think so, kid. It's not that easy." Aren't you supposed to be looking out for me, or something? Why won't you leave me _alone_?

"I'm trying to help you." Oh…right. Fuck. Stupid self-righteous-Winchester gene.

I don't have anything to say back, so I stay quiet. He starts to return my glare as the empty seconds stretch out.

"Fine. _Fine_. Do what you want. I'm going right back over here. And I'm going to polish my gun. And then we're going hunting. And somewhere in there—I hope to _God_, Adam—you'll realize that your mom is dead. Your dad is dead. And all that's left is Sam. And me. And eventually, kid, you're going to have to _talk to us_."

I snort derisively and he looks, for a fleeting moment, like he might hit me.

"Take it from me, then," he says, to me but almost as if to himself, "suffering alone is no one's idea of good revenge."

And then he looks directly into me and I…I can't take it. Something breaks, or pops, or gives in somehow. Collapses. A central defense yields to a superior force and I'm left alone to deal with Dean Winchester, all by myself. And I can't.

"Don't. Just don't. Please, _stop._" Aw, hell—my voice just cracked. Fucking fantastic: this is just the kind of impression I want to make.

I've got to get out of here—God, I've just got to get _away from here_. And so I'm moving; I'm _shoving _past Dean, with his intense look and his pointed questions, and then I'm past the door and out almost to the parking lot.

Somewhere, then, at that very moment, Our Father Who Art in Heaven laughs his head the fuck off. Because I trip; I stumble and I fall and I don't get up.

At this point, what the hell would be the point?

_---_

_Author's Note (again): I'm not much a fan of cliff-hangers, but this time, I couldn't really help myself. The next chapter will pick up right where this one left off—what's more, here's a teaser for it below:_

_Adam has a bit of a nervous breakdown sprawled there outside the brothers' motel room. Conversations of great importance and emotional depth ensue. Also, someone makes an Oprah reference._

_Excited?_


	4. I Was Told There Would Be Cake

_Author's Note: I'm aware that one whole week has mysteriously lapsed in my updates. But in my defense, I was moving back to school for fall semester (not a very good excuse, eh? Yeah—I know); the good news is I've gotten into the hang of things here so I'm back on my regular schedule and Chapter Five is well-underway, even as you read this. The bad news? The following chapter is shorter than most of them are now, or will be, and functions mostly as a slightly surreal conversation piece. (Hey hey, their resolution read better in my head, but it works here, too.) Ok then, enough of me… On to Adam and Dean!_

**I**

Revelation #1: Cement doesn't absorb shock—physical or emotional.

Revelation #2: Fumbling your exit was _not_ the way to send the clear message, "Don't talk to me right now."

Revelation #3: Someone was coming after me. And they weren't coming quietly.

"Shit. _Shit_," A deep voice said somewhere above me.

Hmm…I wonder who that could be.

Two knees enter my vision, and right below them is a pair of boots. Above them I can hear breathing, and I can practically feel his gaze.

"That didn't quite go like I planned it," he says, trying to make me laugh. All he gets in response is my coughing—long—but short of humor.

No, this isn't going to work. I need to get up. I should keep moving. I should—wait.

Why is he moving? Why is he sitting down?

"Ok. Let's start over. Talk to me, kid."

But what do I _say_?

Turning to look at him, I settle on something easy. "I'm sorry?"

He laughs; it's a strange sound for the situation.

"Puppy eyes…really, kid?" The strangeness continues.

"What are you—?" I start.

Seeing my confusion, he grows momentarily discouraged. "It's nothing, really…it's—Sam tends to make puppy eyes, too, whenever we have a fight or something. And now here I am with you and the damn puppy eyes are back." He laughs, quietly but with earnest.

"What is _wrong _with the world?" I mutter. Not quietly enough, obviously, because Dean's ears perk up.

"_Wrong _with the world?"

If it were possible to look shifty while sprawled unceremoniously on motel pavement, then I would be.

Shifty, yes, but annoyed, discouraged, lonely.

"I mean, here I am, with the two of you—who _clearly _don't want me around—and there's all this tension and weird energy and I'm trying to process it—_really_, I am—but I feel like every conversation is a trap or a pothole or something and I just keep slipping into them; so I try and work around you and Sam; I'm trying to make it work without really making it work…y'know? I want to fit in with you guys…I want you guys to _want_ me to fit in."

Ending my little speech melodramatically (if unwontedly) on a sigh, I hold my breath for just a moment.

Dean nods, to me or to himself I don't know, and replies.

"Adam, we want you around."

I can't help myself; before I think about it, I reply.

"Prove it."

He thinks for a moment.

"Adam…I don't think you want to do this."

"What?"

"I mean," he pause and I think I catch a glimpse of a smirk—a ghostof one. "If we do this, well, you may not like what you see."

"Try me."

He shakes his head resignedly. "Fine, fine. Whatever you want."

"So…should I…" I trail off, at a loss.

"First of all, stand up."

"Huh?"

He sighs. "Kid, you want proof, right? And I want to put this roller-coaster-ride of a chick-flick-moment we've been having on to bed. So stand up already, will ya?"

Dean seemed so serious; it looked kind of petty to refuse him. But I was angry; I was hurt.

I was also extremely curious as to where this was all going.

"Fine," I mumbled, again using my stock phrase of pseudo-apathy, shaking my head as best I could while awkwardly untangling my legs and then leveling myself upright.

_The only thing worse than falling flat on your face is having to work at getting back up._

"Good?" I asked standing before him at last.

Before I could wait for his answer, something very strange happened.

Dean Winchester hugged me

_AND THEN THE WORLD ENDED—_

No, really, that's not at all what happened. Instead, I stood there, next to him, _in his arms_, not knowing what to do. And then he spoke.

"Proof enough for you, kid?"

I don't know if it was the surrealism of the last few minutes (hell, _days_), or of the hug itself, or even of the fact that I'd been living on too much caffeine and not enough sleep—whatever it was, it led me to a revelation:

I was wanted.

(Albeit in a wacked out Winchester-fashion, but why quibble?)

A few seconds passed, and, slowly, I eased into the moment. It was almost comforting; it felt good to not to feel stranded anymore. So, yeah, I didn't really know much about my brothers yet. But I would, eventually. This was the evidence I needed. It gave me a foundation for whatever else would happen—I didn't have to hang on to every minute, waiting for what might come next.

And, on the plus side, it saved me from all this psychoanalyzing…Well, mostly.

Dean didn't pull away until I finally gave in and returned the hug. Once I did, he patted me three times on the back and pulled back to arm's length.

I thought he might say something grave and serious. Instead:

"After all these years, Oprah's advice finally came in handy."

My eyes must have bugged-out.

"What? It was an episode I saw on runaways. It seemed relevant."

"I'm not a runaway." And I'm not a surly teenager either, but in the moment, I sounded like one.

"But it helped, didn't it?" Dean threw open his arms again in a mocking gesture, but his eyes were bright.

Embarrassed suddenly at what I just realized was an important sentimental display, I lowered my eyes before answering.

"Yeah, it did." I took a breath and looked him square in the face.

"Thanks Dean."

He paused too, returning my steady gaze with one of his own. "Anytime kid," he said before ruffling my hair. Unused to the strange gesture, I must have stiffened under his hand because the next thing I knew, he was speaking again—gravely.

"And hey, I know what you're going through….maybe not exactly, but don't be so down on yourself…on us. This whole thing is kind of fucked up, isn't it? But you'll get through; don't worry. I'm gonna be right here."

_Who are you and what have you done with Dean Winchester?_

I opened my mouth to ask what raced through my brain, but then I realized the answer would spoil what had just happened. Sure it didn't make any sense, really (since when were Sam and Dean—_especially _Dean—ever heart-on-your-sleeve kind of guys?) but none of this did.

I'd just have to learn to go with the flow…

'Cause if I didn't, I'd sink.

"And one more thing, Adam," Dean said as we turned towards the door of the motel.

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell Sam about this."

But as he finished, we heard deep laughter.

I didn't see if my oldest brother flushed red with embarrassment because. I was too busy laughing myself and Dean was too busy yelling at Sam.

_Home sweet home_.

Maybe I'd be a Winchester after all.

And Dean Winchester watches Oprah…

_Oh, wait._


	5. It's Gonna Be Good

**I**

So I may have dropped my hunting knife—twice—and, sure, I stepped on what seemed like 1,000 different twigs, and loudly too, _and _I even jumped—just a little—at a shadow, for maybe a millisecond, early on, but still: the hunt went well.

"You did good Adam," Sam said. Dean snorted in agreement.

"Seriously guys, I'm a big boy—" Dean snorted again; Sam pretended to smack the back of his head and I laughed, continuing, "I can handle the truth."

"The truth?" Dean laid the two duffle bags he's brought in from the Impala in front of the bathroom. "The truth is that, given the fact that what we just did out there was extremely dangerous, and it was dark, not to mention you're barely old enough to shave—" Now it was me doing the interrupting, with a noise of protest. He acted as if he didn't notice.

"Given _all that_, yeah, Adam, you did well."

"And that's the truth?" I tried to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

Dean looked as if he might smack me. And then he did.

"Oww!"

"Your self-esteem issues, kid, we gotta work on 'em."

"I don't have self-esteem issues." In response, Dean just rolled his eyes.

I rubbed the back of my head, still stinging.

"Now," he said, moving to the bed with one of the duffle bags, "one of you needs to lose your shirt."

Seeing my confused expression, he smiled. "Or both, I don't care."

Pulling off his jacket first, and then stripping his dark-blue long-sleeve shirt off over his head, Sam filled me in. "After every hunt, we do a little first aid to make sure there isn't any injury, minor maybe or internal, that we missed earlier."

"And since Sammy here got half-naked quicker, I guess he'll be up first."

I watched then as Dean continued to prove himself a man of many talents. He sat across from Sam on the bed and worked with a staccato determination: a minutes-long examination of a scraped back or shallow wound would be punctuated by a thirty-second search for gauze or a band-aid.

This was a new side of my oldest brother—even though shades of it had leaked through the entire time we'd spent together—and I was held a little fascinated.

A moment later, Sam grimaced as Dean prodded at a particularly nasty bruise.

"Did you hit something?" Dean asked.

"Don't think so—at least, I don't remember hitting anything."

"Maybe your psychic powers are giving you bruises now." The joke sounded jovial enough to me, but Sam's grimace immediately soured deeply.

"Dean…"

"Sammy—"

"_Psychic_?"

They were clearly about to have a moment…but I mean, _come on_. I'm allowed to be a little surprised. This was pretty out-there. And given the circumstances, that's saying something.

Awkwardly, Sam scratched the back of his head, and lowered his eyes to the bedspread, looking as if he was about to touch the edge of the comforter.

"Shit," he muttered to himself distractedly.

"Fuck," Dean, in turn, muttered to himself.

"Adam," I said.

They both looked at me and broke into laughter. I smiled.

_So I may not be the best hunter, but I sure know how to kill a room…_

"So. Fill me in."

"Take it away, Sammy," Dean said.

"I'm kind of psychic," he picked up.

"Oh…

"Not like Miss Cleo, I'm guessing?"

He smiled at that, barking out laughter.

"No, Adam, not like Miss Cleo."

"Like what, then?"

"I can…ummm—" Seeming at a loss to describe himself, Sam paused.

Dean cut in.

"He can see things, the future, what _might _happen. Comes in handy too, with our job—saving people—plus Sam here can do a weird telekinetic thing: y'know, bust down doors. And he can bend spoons."

Finished now with his explanation, Dean went back to poking at Sam's back.

Glaring at our brother, Sam spoke again. "What happened to 'Take it away, Sammy'?"

"Hey, I got bored; besides, we needed to wrap up this conversation so I could finish poking you with sharp metal things and so I could start on the kid over there."

Unsatisfied with his answer, Sam resorted to sitting quietly with a slight sulk.

Sensing something, I ventured, "Touchy subject?"

"You have no idea," Dean said, nonchalantly. But I caught a current of resentment there, in his need to gloss over Sam's abilities. He joked about it in the way people joke about cancer.

We sat in silence for the rest of Sam's examination. As soon as he was declared in relatively good-shape, Sam moved swiftly from the bed to the bathroom, stepping out of his shoes and jeans in quick, agitated motions.

As he passed me, I heard him whisper with mock-theatricality:

"He's kidding about the spoons…" I began to laugh at his comment; it was good to see he could be mad at one brother, and still happy with the other.

"But I can do a neat thing to demons."

A noise caught in my throat.

_What the fuck?_

Seeing my face, Dean smiled in what I now knew was his shit-eating grin.

"It isn't gonna hurt, Adam."

Dumbly, I walked over to my big brother, vaguely aware that I slipped off my shirt as I did so. But as I turned around to sit back against the wall, Dean's voice broke the daze around my scrambling brain.

"What the fuck?"

**II**

Adrenaline, it turns out, can help you do a lot of things you normally wouldn't: lift impossibly huge cars off of small trapped children; fight back a pack of slavering dogs hungering for flesh; mask the pain from a 5-inch-gash along your lower-back.

Y'know, whatev.

So…yeah, it turned out I'd gotten a tiny cut on my back during the hunt.

"How?" was Dean's recurring question, but I'm not really sure. Must be the adrenaline again.

Which isn't to say that I was Rambo-ing it up out there; I wasn't going crazy off my own hormones or anything. I just…during everything, I guess I must have lost track of myself—trying to keep up with your demon-hunting brothers on an actual demon hunt can take a lot out of a guy.

Dean is pulling and poking and inspecting the wound and I yelp, for the first time, at the pain of the gash.

"How the fuck, Adam?" There's that question again.

"A tree branch?" He looked up at me and I huffed sarcastically.

His lips tugged up by a marginal fraction. "Must have been some large-ass tree branch."

"The biggest."

"I'm surprised it didn't snatch you away and take you back to its tree-brothers, skin you alive and eat you."

I started to smile at that and then I looked over and saw he seemed completely serious. He quirked an eyebrow, "Hey, it's happened before."

I started to shake my head in disbelief.

"Little Rock, seven years ago and there hard as fuck to kill, too—you can't just burn them."

"Tree people?" He nodded once.

"Tree people."

And just as I started to wrap my head around that, to open my mouth and ask him—Well then how _did _you kill them?—his composure broke a little bit.

_Dean Winchester: better at sarcasm than I thought_.

"You're funnier than Sam gives you credit for," I said.

"Yeah well…" Dean trailed off. He dabbed gauze lightly on my wound. I reached around to push him away.

"Hey, that—" As I turned, a shooting pain came from my back. I cried out.

Immediately I felt a hand on my shoulder, rough and warm.

"Where does it hurt?" Dean asked, rubbing my shoulders in a wobbly half-circle.

"I dunno…" I gasped for air; the pain was sharp and lingering.

"There might be something…in the gash."

I didn't have to turn around to know my big brother's expression turned dark, and quickly.

"Something in the gash, Adam?" His tone was professional and no-nonsense. He was on to me.

"I guess…well, see…"

"I'm not going to ask you again, kid: how did you get this gash?"

"It was on the way there—I don't really remember: I was trying to keep up with you guys. I _was _keeping up with you guys. But I just sort of…ran into a tree."

"Ran?"

"Clipped."

"More like slashed." Dean leaned back to look the wound up-and-down. "Geez, Adam: you sure know how to get your first battle scar."

I laughed lightly and a bolt of pain went up my back.

Seeing the pain written across my face, Dean nodded once to himself.

"You've gotta get these pants off, Adam. Whatever's buried in there is coming out. And now."

I nodded somewhat meekly and fumbled with the zipper of my jeans for a moment before they pooled at my feet.

Dean took one look at where the gash extended past my back to just above the waistband of my underwear. He sighed and exhaled a hot breath.

"This is gonna hurt Adam…"

**III**

An hour later, I was still in Dean's bed without my pants on. Dean was on the floor, and Sam was on the opposite bed, hair still wet from the shower. Things were a little strained: Sam was mad at Dean for their earlier flare-up (my fault); Dean was still frustrated with me for keeping my mouth shut about my wounds (my fault); and he was pretty exhausted from having to spend thirty extra minutes pulling out pieces of deadwood from my skin (my fault again—three times a charm, eh?).

We were all "asleep," but none of us was sleeping. We were all, I was pretty sure, in deep-brooding mode.

_So this is what it's like to be a real Winchester._

I eased myself over on one shoulder, facing Sam's bed. It wasn't actually that painful; Dean let me take his bed for the night, foreseeing my pain. Big brothers: gotta love 'em.

I heard Sam across the room. His head turned in my direction.

"How are you?" he whispered, as if trying to keep up the pretense of a sleeping room.

"Oh, you know. Great." I could almost see his disbelief.

"Maybe in a few days."

Longer than that, probably, I thought. I'm a slow healer. I got in a fight two years ago, and my twin black eyes had taken three weeks to fade completely.

"You should have told us," he said in full-on Sam-Winchester-lecturer mode.

"I know," I sighed, trying not to seem annoyed at hearing the same thing for the tenth time in sixty minutes.

"I'm sorry." In response, I faintly saw his head move in something like acceptance.

From the floor a voice floated up into our conversation.

"You could use some training, kid."

Sam began to speak and I expected a rebuttal, maybe, given his mood around Dean.

"Hmm," he trailed off, thoughtfully. He sat up and switched on the bedside light.

Looking over at me, Sam said, "Training is probably a good idea."

"Now?" I joked.

Dean responded in an instant. "Why not?"

_Why?_

"Umm, I'm not wearing anything for one; and I'm injured, remember?"

"We'll go slow." As he spoke, Dean threw back the sheet covering him and stood.

"Come on, Adam. We're burning moonlight."

I was inclined to refuse, but they both looked at me with complete seriousness.

"We're not going to keep letting you hurt yourself," Sam said as a way of explanation.

"I don't run into trees every night you know," I said back.

"Huh," Dean said, unsure. I glared at him.

"Get up," he smacked my foot.

I was pretty sure they weren't going to pull me out of bed by force, but…

Hesitatingly I obliged.

Ten minutes later I was still fumbling with my pants: pulling them past my knees required a slight bending motion which was proving incredibly painful.

Sighing, Dean walked toward me and, in a quick and efficient move, pulled my jeans around my waist.

"I'm assuming you can finish?" he said sarcastically. Sam laughed.

Nice to see the mood had lightened for _them_.

Three minutes later I stood by the bathroom door with Dean about a foot away, a knife in both hands. The "training" had just begun…

Thirty-eight minutes later:

"Like this. Here, grab and then thrust...easy, easy. There, that's better.

"But what if it's dark? You've got to stop looking so hard for your target. Just go with it. Now, go again—better. Keep going."

Off on the sidelines, Sam bursts out laughing.

_That's what she said_.


	6. The Strangers

_Author's Note: My, I am an errant writer, aren't I? First Labor Day got me, and then Gameday Weekend—I've been slacking. 1,000 apologies; here's Chapter Six. I'm afraid it's got a miniscule word-count, but that's all leading-up to some serious busting-out angst I've got primed a few chapters down the road._

**I**

"Who are you: a stray they picked up on the side of the highway?"

When she spoke to me—and, I assumed, to anyone—her voice shifted slightly; it was kind of rough, but I got the sense that it was…I don't, _changeable _somehow.

I turned around and looked her right in the eyes. She was pretty, but rigid. And she looked smug.

"I'm not a stray."

She quirked an eyebrow, "So what, then—you just play one on TV?"

"Ruby…" Sam's voice was there in the corner now; I hadn't noticed. It was low and…menacing?

Not for the first time in the last five minutes I wondered who she was, and why she'd suddenly decided to step right into our lives.

She turned to him, a smear of false cheer across her face. Smiling, she spoke again.

"Sam! It's been _forever_."

He flinched a bit. She smiled wider.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Oh, you know…" She trailed off and, with a theatrical pause, walked closer to him and away from me.

"What have y_ou_ been up _to_?"

Her tone made me wince in sympathy; and that question…it turned my stomach. There was a level of intimacy there between them. I couldn't tell yet: it was easier to assume it was feigned. But the way Sam was around her left me wondering…

Wondering, my eyes wandered: they caught the cracked cement around the Impala and hung on the browned weeds who'd rebelliously disrupted the parking lot; the flickering fluorescent lights of the gas station across the street; the steaming haze coming from a sewer cap twenty feet away.

They saw all of this, and as I took in what they saw, I realized how wrong it was that we were here. That she—Ruby—was here. How vulnerable we were…how vulnerable I felt.

In a flicker of panic, I looked for Dean. I found him standing behind Sam's right shoulder, not a few feet back. He wasn't moving; his face was a mask. But the longer I looked at him, the less reassured I was by his calm demeanor. It seemed…fake. And strained.

Sam cleared his throat. It made an awkward noise here, between the four of us.

"I've been on the road, mostly."

She smiled.

"Kill anyone I know?"

For a second, it looked like Sam went a little pale. Glancing behind his shoulder, I saw Dean's face tighten.

Ruby laughed.

As the sound died down, she sighed—almost to herself, but it was loud enough that I heard (and what did she mutter? It sounded like "boring")—and turned to me.

"So, someone: fill me in—you have a scraggly orphan with you because…?"

For the first time, Dean spoke.

"He carries our supplies for us. And Ruby, I'm not gonna lie—he's a huge AC/DC fan."

She shot my older brother a dirty look; I cracked up.

_Leave it to Dean to kill a killer mood._

Hearing my laughter, she turned back to me. That smile was back, in full-force. Looking straight at it, I saw what Sam must have seen—it didn't touch her eyes. They had a different sort of humor in them.

"Really, kid: AC/DC?"

I couldn't think fast enough to snap back, so I settled for shrugging sarcastically.

She smirked and came closer, looking me over.

A step or two away, she stopped.

For a second she looks directly at me. She opens her mouth; she turns.

"Gotcha!"

And then she's gone.

**II**

In the space that's left I can see both Sam and Dean clearly. For a full fifteen seconds, I stare at each of them, curiosity written plainly across my face. Neither looks back at me.

My feet scuff against the ground nervously; I don't remember moving them, but it breaks the silence.

But, surprisingly, before I can speak, Sam looks at Dean. He draws a breath, and I can tell his face is a carefully-wrought mask of pain and indecision. My stomach turns even before a word leaves his mouth.

"She knows…"

Our older brother jerks his head at this and looks at the both of us.

"We need to get going."

And then he's off, and Sam's following, and everything is way more fucked up than it was when the sun rose.


End file.
